Boomerang
by Blair.1907
Summary: Arthur Kirkland had never been good with boomerangs-if you threw them too hard, they might crack. If you threw then too gently, they would never come back. AmericaxEngland


**AN: This story was written for a friend of mine, Ravina. She does not particularily like the AmericaxEngland pairing, and I felt obligated to create a short oneshot that she would like that was centered around this couple. (I myself don't know much about Hetalia, nor these two countries, but hey-it's worth a shot!)**

**Please review and tell me what you thought about it, if you would be so kind to! I really appreciate reviews!**

**-Sunny**

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Boomerang

Sherry Sun

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Cold, sharp tears rained from a sky of bland grey stretched high overhead. They pelted the sodden meadow violently, the few remaining strands of grass bent and drowning in the flood of water. A frigid gale swept over the plain.

A mixture of damp, earthy scents mingled with gunpowder and sweat. Arthur Kirkland inhaled deeply, overwhelmed by the roaring pulse of his heart, which battered like a furious child against his ribcage. He stared at the ground, consisting of nothing more than a swampy mass of mud and debris. His ratty uniform looked no different.

" England." A smooth, yet tense tenor pierced the air. Arthur stiffened, but his eyes remained locked to the ground. The British man did not need to see those large, blue eyes to know they were on him. He could already feel the pleading stare burning a hole into his forehead. It hurt.

"England," the voice repeated, stronger this time. "Please understand this."

It took every ounce of strength Arthur had left to rip his gaze away from the floor, and straight into the clear, watery depths of Alfred's eyes. He found his courage diminishing fast once again. He opened his mouth before more could be lost. "You've already said so, and it's all done now. I heard you the first time, America."

Alfred did not move from his spot, standing rigid against the biting wind. His worn uniform clung damp against his body, his sandy hair strewn gracelessly across his grave face. "I want independence. I want to grow up and do things on my own. I know I am able to, and I know I am supposed to."

"Yes." Arthur's voice wavered the slightest. "You've grown. You've become your own leader, your own country. You're right."

"We are still going to keep in contact." Alfred's voice was fuzzy against England's ears. "Nothing much will have changed. It will still be like old times."

Like old times. Arthur could have sworn Alfred was saying those words to reassure himself. It was a silly notion-both men were too far grown to believe everything would remain as it had been. Yet, Arthur could not bring himself to disagree. A small voice in the back of his mind nagged at him, like an inner child attempting to justify a mistake.

"Yes. It will be like old times."

Arthur narrowed his eyes against the icy needles of rain that had grown more aggressive overtime. Kneeled on the ground, he could barely discern America's facial features; all he could see was a tall, dark silhouette. Was this really Alfred? The little Alfred he had held as a small child-the same Alfred that had called him 'Big Brother'? The Alfred that had come crying to him with a scraped knee, or cried of joy after finding newly wrapped toys under the Christmas tree?

'No.' Arthur thought as his nails dig into the wet earth beneath. 'It's not Alfred anymore. It's America. Just America.'

But when he looked up once again to meet hesitant, lost eyes, he felt as though he were staring into a mirror. Both men, unblinking and silent, stared at each other with great uncertainty. A lump formed in England's throat.

"Arthur?" Alfred's voice was barely a whisper.

But the whisper had been more than enough for Arthur. Any doubts he had of America turned tail and fled, leaving the old Alfred naked and in plain sight. England felt something hot and wet roll down his cheeks.

No matter what happened, Alfred would be there-America or not.

"Yes, Alfred?"

"Thank you."

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"_What is it?"_

_Alfred rocked back and forth on his heels in anticipation, staring at the strange new object in his hands. He cast Arthur an imploring glance._

"_It's a boomerang." the British explained. The older boy ran his fingers along the smooth, lacquered wood, tracing the special gold details engraved in the mahogany surface. "When you throw it, it will come back to you."_

"_Is it magical? That's so cool! I've always wanted a magical toy!" Alfred exclaimed, his blue eyes shining. Arthur did not know how to respond. Crushing a child's dream was simply a sin._

"_Yes, it's magical." Arthur lied, while guiding the child's small, chubby fingers around the toy. "I'll teach you how to throw it."_

"_Really?"_

"_Of course. Pay close attention, okay? You wrap your fingers around the shaft like this, and here-point your index finer out towards the tip-yes! Just like that. You learn fast."_

"_I'm doing it right?" _

"_Yes."_

"_Well, here goes!" little Alfred proclaimed. He drew his hand as far back as he could, and with a small but firm movement, sent the boomerang flying into the air-and right back into his hands._

_Arthur stared in shock at his little brother. "You-you actually did it!"_

"_Yup! Is big brother proud of me?" Arthur asked excitedly. He was bouncing eagerly on his feet._

"_You were brilliant!" Arthur nodded, wondering if he could do the same. "Here, let me try."_

_Arthur took the boomerang from the child, and drew his arm back grandly. With a forceful thrust, the object was launched high into the air._

_It never came back._

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**End~! Hope you enjoyed, and if you did, please don't forget to review and tell me what you thought! Many thanks!**


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